Batman: Gotham Fire
by freehandman12
Summary: Post-TDK. As Bruce Wayne struggles to help rebuild Gotham, new faces arise that force him to answer a dangerous question: Where does the man end and the Batman begin?
1. Prologue

Set in the Nolanverse.

I don't own Batman or any of the associated characters. Bob Kane and DC can claim that.

--

"Thirty eight. Thirty nine. Forty."

Jennifer Tone hung down from the wall-mounted bar by her legs, finishing her last curl. She let her legs slip of and flipped over, landing on her feet. Jennifer's beauty was undeniable. She had the form of a goddess, tall, long-legged, with long, blonde hair. She carried herself with the self-assurance of someone who knew how good they were. And she was the best.

However, the dainty, high class exterior was less apparent at the moment than the fighter that lay within. Layer upon layer of sweat glistened on her skin and soaked her sports bra and gym shorts. Her golden locks were tied back in a pony tail. The few strands that would have hung loose were plastered to her skull.

She strolled over to the small table in the center of her personal training area, dry towels on top of it. Various weight-lifting machines and other exercise instruments littered this padded room, all state of the art. Something no one would know from walking into this two-story building, the second floor of which contained this facility. The building also happened to be placed about a block away from Viti's bakery, the front for his entire operation. It stood as a well-disguised hideout for the favored pet of an old mob hand, a man who looked more and more like he might be the one to step into the vacuum at the top.

As Jennifer wiped the sweat out of her eyes, she thought of all that made it possible for Johnny Viti to rise up the ladder. Harvey Dent's crusade, the Joker's elimination of Gambol and the Chechen, the death of Sal Maroni at the hands of the Batman, and the Batman's capture of the Joker, highest profile resident of Arkham Asylum. A fortuitous set of circumstances for Mr. Viti. Those which placed her here, however were not as fortuitous. Neither were they pleasant to think about. The thought-

Screeching tires interrupted her train of thought. Jennifer pushed out through the door. The training room had no windows, or at least none that could still be used as such. She moved to one of the ones in the dirty hallway, looking out of the cracked glass onto the road below. She could see nothing down in front of her. But there were some lights off to the side that she couldn't quite make out.

Jennifer ran back inside the room and threw on her black leather jacket and pants and corresponding boots. She looked at the motorcycle helmet next to them and thought about taking it with her. The lights didn't look too far off though. She wouldn't need her motorcycle. They were probably only about a b-

"Oh my god," Jennifer gasped.

She grabbed her helmet and sprinted down the stairs. The front door had been sealed long ago, so Jennifer ran to the back, bursting out into the alley. Her slick black Suzuki leaned against the rear wall of the building. She dropped her helmet on the handlebars and turned to run down the alley to the street. Jennifer slowed down as she approached the street, peaking around the corner.

Three black sedans sat, engines running, outside of the bakery. Four men stood alongside the cars, smoking and talking amongst themselves. Jennifer slowly moved forward, straying away from the light, her black clothing providing camouflage against the harsh night. Despite the boots, she made no noise, a wraith slinking down the street. Feeling around in her pocket for something, anything, she found nothing. She had nothing but herself. Hopefully, that'd be enough. Jennifer ran low across the opposite side of the street and slid behind one of the cars, close enough to listen in.

"How much longer?" One of the men, a clean shaven man and the youngest, asked.

A man with a broken nose shrugged and tapped his cigarette, ashes dropping to the ground. A third man, this one with a large scar across his right eye, spoke up. "Long enough to give that old man hell."

The final man, the oldest, sneered. "Shouldn't be too long."

The others laughed. Jennifer gritted her teeth. "How'd they know he'd be here? Who told?" She whispered to herself.

Clean Shave looked at Broken Nose, "So when do we get paid?"

Broken Nose took another drag. "Don't worry, kid, you'll get paid."

Scar spoke up. "Yeah. Alberto's not gonna stiff you. He's good for it."

"Alberto Falcone?" Jennifer made a mental note. She'd look up Mr. Falcone sometime soon. But there wasn't any more time to collect information. She couldn't wait any longer.

Jennifer leapt the hood of the car and landed at a full sprint. The four men barely had time to react when she was upon them. Clean Shave went down without much effort. An elbow to the stomach, palm to the face. She fell to the ground and quickly swept Old Man's feet out from under him, dropping him down with her. Rising, Jennifer disarmed Broken Nose, in turn using the pistol to bludgeon Scar, and put him down as well. Broken Nose tried to grab her, but she simply flipped him over her shoulder and gave him a swift knockout kick to the chops.

With the others down, Jennifer turned to Old Man. His trembling hands grasped for a pistol in his belt. She promptly stepped on his wrist freeing the gun. She used her other foot to send it skittering away. "That's a good way to get us both killed," Jennifer sent her boot down to meet his face, assuring that he wouldn't be getting up. But time was growing short. She ran for the bakery entrance.

Jennifer pushed through the glass door and leapt over the counter. She turned into the back hallway and dashed up the steps quicker than ever before. Second floor. He wouldn't be here. She kept climbing. The third floor. Silence. She ran across to the office, Johnny's personal office. The door was ajar. She stepped in. And covered her mouth.

He was dead. They killed him. Johnny Viti, next in line to the Falcone family crime operation, lay dead, sprawled across his desk. It hadn't been a bullet that did him in, but the large red pool beneath him told her the story of Johnny Viti's end. Johnny, the man who had taken in. The man who had saved her from _that _world. The only man who truly knew she existed. The man who had been more than a father to her, was now face down among his papers and cigars. His office, for the longest time a source of refuge for the man from the demands of his family and the family, was now a tomb. Words couldn't explain the rage she now felt. They would pay.

Jennifer turned and looked around. Where was Johnny's bodyguard? Whoever it was, he would be by Johnny's side wherever he went. She stepped into the hall and walked down it, searching the other rooms. No one at all. The bodyguard wasn't here. So he was a culprit as well, part of Alberto Falcone's plot. Whoever it had been tonight, he would be found, also.

She made for the stairs, but the familiar sound of tires stopped her, and turned her back to the front of the building. Staring out the window, she could see a car peeling away from the building. The four men were no longer on the ground. If they were in the third car, she couldn't tell as it was now on fire. Two men stood behind it and began to push it. The flaming sedan rolled forward, now a giant bomb on wheels, into the lobby of the bakery. They hopped into the other car and took off.

"Oh no." Jennifer ran downstairs to the bottom floor. A fire now raged in lobby of the bakery. No way out there. She turned to retreat into the actual baking area. Bread, flour and baking equipment had been strewn everywhere. The oven had been tampered with. It was set way too high. A gas line above it wiggled, trying to fight free from its bracing and spew its flame bearing contents into the air. A death trap for anyone caught in here when it went.

Jennifer jumped for the back door. The burglar bar was still snugly locked in place, blocking her exit and keeping the door in place. Jennifer threw herself against it. The door refused to budge. She hit it again. Futile. Another glance up at the gas line told her what she needed to know. The line shook more violently by the second. At this point, it had almost shaken itself free of the bracing holding it to the wall. She couldn't hope to get through the door anymore.

The entire first floor of the building was in flames now. Jennifer dove through the flames and charged up to the second floor. She coughed violently, the suffocating black soot forcing its way into her lungs. Staggering forward, Jennifer looked out through her last hope. The second story window. She pounded on it. The glass cracked. She hit it again. Same result.

Another fit of coughing hit her. Dizziness had begun, her oxygen supply depleted. She needed to get out. Jennifer stepped back and threw her arm across her face. Flat out, she ran at the window and jumped, hitting it with her shoulder. The old, fragile glass gave way easily enough and Jennifer was free. For a moment, she only thought of gasping for fresh air. However, in the next instant, her instincts reminded her she was quickly falling to earth from two stories up. Jennifer pulled her head in and lead with her shoulder again, landing and rolling. She tried to roll to her feet, but pitched forward again to fall face first and palms on the pavement.

Jennifer cast aside the pain and flipped over. The building before her burned brilliantly in the night. The flames had leapt across and engulfed the adjacent buildings along the street. Soon, it would make its way to her block. Maybe burn her shelter down.

Jennifer stood and wiped the soot and ash from her face. Calmly, almost casually, she walked down the street and down the alley to the back door of her building. She entered and ascended the stairs, entering her personal fitness room. Jennifer forcefully tossed the table across the room, the expression on her face remaining neutral and uncaring as she knelt down to a floorboard with a large black knot. She punched it. Once. Twice. Three times before the board shattered. Blood covered the ends of the board still in place. Her blood. She reached in.

Once hidden beneath the floorboards, a large back pack now occupied her hands. Jennifer unzipped a small portion and peaked inside. A seemingly endless supply of bills and promissory notes. Viti's personal fortune, his personal bank. Now hers. She zipped the pack up and slung it over her shoulder. She ran from the room.

Outside, her bike waited for her. The blaze was spreading. It had jumped the street, now attacking the first building on her block. Gotham FD wouldn't make it in time to save these buildings. Who would want them to? Not her. Not anymore.

The helmet fell into place on her head, feeling snug and familiar. She revved the engine and kicked off the side of the building. The bike tore out of the alleyway, out of the street, out of the neighborhood. Jennifer Tone was gone. But she had never been there. No one would know. She had been Viti's precious secret. His little pussy cat.

--

Not exactly what I wanted, but I've been writing this story for months and needed a beginning. Things get much better.


	2. Find the Leader

I don't own Batman. Bob Kane and DC do.

--

The police siren wailed as the car tore through the dark city. Commissioner James Gordon sat in the front seat of the car, a thin sheet of paper clutched between the fingers of his left hand. The handset of the police radio occupied his other hand. He brought it up to his mouth.

"What's our status with the truck?" He asked into the mouthpiece.

"It's not on the outlined route. Two black sedans jumped it and took out the driver," a voice called back.

Gordon shook his head. He looked to the piece of paper in his hand and read something off of it. "We got a heading on it?"

"Not so far, Commissioner. They cut across traffic and we lost them."

"Keep looking. Units 36 and 19, head for 42nd and Girard," Gordon said into the radio. He glanced sidelong at Officer Franks, his driver, who took the hint and pressed harder on the gas pedal.

"Commissioner," Franks half-turned to Gordon, "Do you really think this Nigma guy's gonna do what he said?"

The reference was to the letter in Gordon's hand. It had been delivered to the MCU, though delivered probably wouldn't be the exact term for it. Recently, one of their informants, who'd been keeping tabs on the Joker's former followers, disappeared after delivering news that someone else had been trying to rally support among them. He'd been found on the steps of the MCU two nights ago with a bullet in his brain and a typewritten letter inside his jacket, unmarked except for a large question mark on the front.

The letter itself read as if it were from a bad movie. Every line rhymed and it seemed to give out little hints as to what kind of crime they were planning on committing. At the bottom, it had been signed, handwritten, by an "E. Nigma", obviously, a play on the word "enigma". Fortunately, whoever wrote the letter wasn't very clever, and they'd figured out that this person was planning on trying to take the armored car bringing in the Moon's Tear diamond, a large, unique rock, recently discovered in Africa and soon to go on display in the Gotham Academy for the Arts.

Now, the threat wouldn't have been taken seriously, but for the fact that a similar letter had appeared a week earlier, packaged identically to this one. While it had been unsigned, the letter was phrased exactly the same, rhymes and all. That one had promised the death of a police officer. Of course, the next day, their informant went missing. While he wasn't an officer, per se, someone who was not part of the police force could easily mistake him for one, as he worked for the police.

Franks jerked the car around the corner. Gordon looked out the window. 42nd street. They flew down, lights flashing and siren blaring, not that it mattered, as not many people down this way drove around at this time of night. Ahead of them, other, similar lights flashed at an intersection. Girard Avenue.

Four cop cars surrounded the entrance to a small building on the corner of 42nd and Girard. Gordon hopped out as soon as their car came to a halt, jogging over to a crouched Det. Gerard Stephens, the man now in charge of the MCU. After Wuertz's death and Ramirez's resignation, he was given the title by default.

"What's the situation, detective?"

Stephens looked up. "This is the building from the letter Jim, but our guys in the building say they didn't see the van."

"Hmm," Gordon scratched his head, "Maybe we put too much stock in those letters."

"Calling all units," A gravelly voice called from the police radio, "We're now in high speed pursuit of a black armored van, presumed to be the target. License plate-"

Gordon jumped into the nearest car and pulled the handset from its cradle. "This is Gordon. Where is the van?"

"Commissioner, we're approaching Thirty-Eighth and Girard."

Gordon stood up and looked down the street. They were nearly upon the miniature blockade. A large, black armored car, trailed by three police cars, all barreling at full speed down the tiny road. Less than a block from them.

"Out of the way!" Gordon yelled. Policemen dove out of the way as the armored car busted through the tail ends of two police cruisers. One of its pursuers spun out as it tried to stop itself from colliding with another car. The other two weaved by the wreckage, still flying after the stolen vehicle. Gordon hopped in one of the usable cars with Franks and they sped after them, Stephens right on their tail in the other car.

Gordon grabbed the radio handset again. "Calling all units, black van confirmed to be the target. We're now in pursuit travelling down-"

A black sedan burst out of a side street and clipped one of the cop cars in front of Gordon. The cruiser went into a tailspin, colliding with the other leading car. The two cars now created a miniature blockade on the road. Franks spun the wheel and slammed on the brake, stopping their car with feet to spare. Stephens pulled up next to them.

Gordon leapt from his car, looking down the road. The van and sedan were gone. He slammed his closed fist on the hood of the car and immediately got back in. "We need to get around. We'll try and cut them off further along. Let's move it!" Franks laid on the gas.

--

The black van pulled into the alley, the sedan right behind it. The two hijackers stepped out of the van and walked over to join the two men at the back of the sedan, looking through the trunk for the tools needed to complete the job. Each man wore a pair of heavy sunglasses.

Leon walked back over to the van, looking at the sealed shut rear door. He grabbed the lock and gave it a yank. Solid, strong. "Hey, Rick, these things gonna work?"

Out of the trunk came four large and powerful blowtorches. Rick handed one to Leon. "Two men on each side, enough heat to cut through toughest metal they got." Leon flicked his blowtorch on, waving his hand outside the reach of the flame. They were definitely hot.

"Let's do this. The boss'll be here soon." The other three torches came on and the men got to work.

"What was he thinking, giving away the location of our meeting place," Rick glanced at Leon while chewing away with his torch. They appeared to be working. "Now we're behind schedule."

"Well," Leon shrugged, "If this diamond is worth as much as they say it is, then it won't matter."

"How much is it worth again?"

"More than you'll ever know," The voice came from behind them. All four stopped and turned. Another car had pulled up, a brand new green sedan, still shining. Next to it, a man in a green suit and hat stood hunched over a cane, his face in shadow. Atop the cane was a question mark. "And nothing without my contact."

"Excuse me, Mr. Nigma," Rick stammered, "Didn't hear you pull up."

"Just keep working," Rick, Leon and the others turned back to the car, "We don't have a lot of time." Nigma walked over to look out of the alley.

"Hello, Mr. Nigma."

A right hook dropped him before he could respond. The four at work on the back of the van knew the voice immediately and dropped their torches, trading them for pistols. Nigma was on the ground, no one around him. Rick said what everyone was thinking. "Where's the Batman?"

"Behind you." He was disarmed and knocked out in less than instant. The Batman pulled the pistol out of Leon's hand and clubbed one of the other men with it, sending him down. He threw the fourth man against the car and gave him a forearm across the face. Leon received a knee to the stomach and was thrown into the windshield of the black sedan before darkness took over.

Bruce walked over to the armored car, crouching down to look at one of the tires. A small, metal disk, almost the same color as the rim of the wheel, was plucked off by Bruce. A homing device. He placed it inside of one the pouches on his belt, then proceeded to walk back over to his main target.

--

The man who claimed to be E. Nigma began to stir. Bruce shook him violently to speed the process. In seeing the fearsome figure before him, Nigma's first reaction was to run. Unfortunately, he was tied up at the moment, not to mention hanging about thirty feet above the ground, attached to a fire escape. Bruce grabbed him roughly by the collar of his green suit jacket. He recognized this man, the bank manager who was shot by the Joker during the big robbery before his murder spree. This guy couldn't be the new mob head.

"Are you E. Nigma?"

Nigma shook his head, "No. I'm just a guy in a green suit."

A miniature tape recorder came out of a pouch on Bruce's belt. He pressed a button. Rick's voice played. "_Hello Mr. Nigma. Didn't hear you pull up." _Nigma's voice came up, _"Just keep working."_

"That doesn't prove anything."

"Maybe. But your handwriting will," Bruce put the recorder away and pulled Nigma closer. "Who are you working for?"

Nigma shook his head. "No one. I'm independent."

Bruce gave him a violent shake. "Did the Joker set this up?"

"That guy?" Nigma looked repulsed, "If you think I did you're dumber than even I thought?"

A quick jab across his face shut him up. "I know you were part of Maroni's mob. You ran his bank. Who's in charge now?"

"No one. The Joker killed them all."

"Stop lying!" Bruce slammed Nigma into the wall, "Who's in charge!"

"I am!" Nigma spit out some blood, "Those idiots will follow anyone who can kill someone and wear a stupid costume. They're all just looking for a new Joker."

"There won't be another Joker," Bruce let go of Nigma, "You'll be joining him in Arkham soon, Mr. Nigma."

"Nigma isn't my name. At least give me the dignity of being arrested under my-"

Bruce flung him against the wall to shut his mouth. The man who wasn't E. Nigma now rocked back and forth from his own weight. Stepping off the fire escape, Bruce fell to the ground. The four other criminals were now propped up against the armored car, hands tied behind their backs. Bruce walked over to the Batpod and threw his leg over it. As the engine roared to life, he pressed his hand to his ear, activating the built in cell phone. "Gordon," he queued up the call to the Commissioner. He picked up after one ring, knowing exactly who was calling him.

"Fifty-third and Lakewood," Bruce hung up. Gordon could collect the trash and question them. The Batpod engine whined beneath him and Bruce kicked it into gear. He took off into the night.

--

Hopefully a little better I guess. A little less action and a little more character are my plans for upcoming chapters.


	3. Enigma

New stuff. Hope you enjoy. Just a reminder, I don't own Batman, Bob Kane and DC do.

--

Blaring. Something very loud. An alarm.

Gordon groggily rubbed his eyes. Next to him, Barbara still slept peacefully, used to these early morning wakeups. Since the Joker killings and his promotion, they'd been coming earlier than ever. Gordon reached over to the bed stand, pressed off the alarm and grabbing the clock. Five A.M. Just in time for his daily meeting. He needed a cup of coffee.

--

Outside, darkness still covered Gotham. In more ways than one, Gordon thought. He needed to get back down to MCU and question Nigma. Pulling his trench coat closer against morning breeze, Gordon sipped his coffee and walked down the steps. Up ahead of him rested his beat up sedan, a car that seemed far older than it actually was. Hopefully, he'd be able to stay on long enough as Commissioner to afford a newer one, but in Gotham, hoping usually didn't get you where you wanted. He stepped in.

The engine sputtered to life and Gordon pulled the car into the street. Before, when things had been getting better, he would have driven straight to work. He also would have slept in later. But now. Now he doesn't take the arterial down to his office, or travel away from the downtown area to get to the MCU, as he planned to do later today. Now, he turns left. Now he travels into the depths of Gotham, and into this abandoned auto garage. In the beginning, they could simply meet at his house, once the night had come. But now they had to be more secretive about these get togethers. They had to be careful, because this man was a murderer.

"Commissioner."

His eyes rose to see the Batman, perched above on the once functional hydraulic lift, now stuck eight feet in the air. He held a cable over his head, which he released when Gordon stepped out of his car, leaving his coffee inside. The large metal door to the garage slid shut. The Batman dropped down.

"I got your little present last night," Gordon pulled his glasses of and wiped them on his shirt.

"And here's another one," the Batman's gruff voice called out. A small cassette tape flew from his hands to Gordon. "Confirms him as Nigma."

"Then we can probably link him to those letters in addition to the hijacking," Gordon picked a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He offered it to the Batman.

"No need. I've already seen it."

Gordon shrugged and put the letter back in his pocket. "Then I guess you know why Nigma's not going to get any help. Anything remotely reminiscent of the Joker and the people demand 'justice'."

"Revenge."

"They think it's justice." Gordon looked down at his hands.

The Batman walked over to a small table in what used to be the office of the garage. "You won't get a match on the handwriting."

"What?" Gordon hurried to follow him. The Batman held open a manila envelope, dumping assorted papers onto the table. Gordon quickly scanned them and picked one up. Banking documents, all signed by the branch manager.

"The man you took into custody last night used to be the manager at this bank," The Batman stood back to give Gordon access, "His name is Robert Liddman. These are copies of documents he signed."

Gordon looked more closely at the documents. He recognized the seal. "The last bank the Joker robbed." Gordon took the letter back out and unfolded it. The side by side comparison confirmed what the Batman had told him.

"So who do we have down at MCU?" Gordon walked back down near his car.

"A part of this," the Batman gathered the papers back into the envelope, "But not the leader. Liddman is small-time," the Batman pulled out a small lighter and burned the envelope, "We're running out of time, Commissioner."

Gordon sighed, "I know. The prison terms are starting to run out."

"And the mob is trying to conglomerate again," he stepped on the ashes of the envelope and papers, "Whoever they're falling behind, we need to find him and soon."

"Yeah," Gordon nodded, "In the meantime, you have to watch yourself."

"Is MCU closing in?"

"No," Gordon shook his head, "But Stephens just got a new guy up there. A hot shot rookie."

"Did you meet him?"

"Few times. A pretty bright kid, actually." Gordon chuckled a bit, "Actually, he almost seemed enamored with," Gordon looked up. The Batman was gone, "you."

--

Gordon looked at his watch as he strode into the MCU. Six thirty. Felt like noon already. He took another sip of coffee and walked down the halls towards the holding cell. Thankfully, they hadn't had to use it since Lau had been here, but now it was supposed to be occupied by Mr. Robert Liddman, otherwise known as E. Nigma.

A few cops milled around their desks, but it was still too early for the MCU to be running at full capacity. Gordon spotted Stephens sitting in his office, talking on the phone, and he jogged across the room to knock on his half-open door. Stephens looked up.

"Commissioner," he stood, "I'll call you back." Stephens hung up the phone and walked over to Gordon.

"Where's Nigma?" Gordon asked.

"Down in the holding cell," Stephens walked briskly from his office, Gordon right behind him, "The DA wants to come down and talk to him around noon."

"Just Van Dorn or Richards, too?"

"We'll probably know when she gets here."

Gordon didn't like that answer, but that's the way things were done around here now. With the corruption inside the GCPD pushed in the public's collective face more than ever, and a strong trust in the District Attorney's office from Harvey Dent's crusade and Janet Van Dorn's almost religious dedication to Harvey's ideals, the DA was seemingly given free rein to battle the criminals of Gotham. While it wasn't perfect, the system had been producing results, so Gordon dealt with it.

They arrived in the cell block. Stephens walked up to the guard, a young policeman who had been none too happy to have to babysit the cages. However, upon the Commissioner's arrival, he put on his best show for them.

"What can I do for you, Commissioner?"

"We need Nigma," Stephens nodded to the back. Gordon craned his neck, looking for the individual holding cell. For some reason, it looked empty.

The young man began to sweat. "Nigma? Uh, he's not here."

"What?" Stephens raised his voice a little too much, "Where is he?"

"Upstairs," he pointed up the hallway, "In the Interrogation Room."

Gordon put a hand on Stephens back, calming the excitable detective and moving him aside. The Commissioner looked down at the young man. "Who signed him out?"

--

Robert Liddman, still wearing the torn and bloodied green suit, sat at the metal table of the Interrogation room in the MCU, staring at man across from him. He was young, no older than thirty, tall as well, at least six two, and held himself as someone with complete confidence would. Icy blue eyes complemented his short dirty blond hair, which was meticulously cut and combed back neatly away from his face. The starched shirt, finely pressed suit and polished shoes that he wore stood in stark contrast to the outfits of the other, more loosely attired detectives.

A single sheet of paper lay on the table between the man and Liddman. Slowly, calmly, the man reached out a single hand and picked up the piece of paper, raising it up off the table. He cleared his throat.

"Riddle me this, riddle me that. Who's afraid of a big black bat?"

Lieutenant Edward Nashton looked over the top of the paper and into the eyes of Mr. Robert Liddman, aka E. Nigma.

"We received the letter earlier this morning," he indicated the letter, "Did you write it?"

Liddman didn't answer, keeping his mouth sealed. He simply stared stonily at Nashton.

An eerie smile formed on Eddie Nashton's face. "That's, okay," he dropped the letter back into a coat pocket and folded his hands in front of him, "That was a test question. I already know the answer," Eddie leaned forward, "My real question is this: Why does a man dress up in a ridiculous green suit? Furthermore, why does he murder ten people, become a powerful mob figure, write threatening and incriminating letters to the police, and then when he gets caught, not say one word to anyone?"

In his chair, Liddman had begun to squirm. Beads of sweat now littered his brow. Nashton was getting to him and he could tell.

"Finally, why does he start sweating and trembling in his chair while under attack by a young, rookie detective?" Nashton leaned back, staring directly into Liddman's eyes. Eddie arched his eyebrows. "Do you want to know the answer?"

There was an almost imperceptible nod from Liddman. Nashton's chilling smile grew. He looked down his nose at the man who was no longer E. Nigma. "Because he's faking."

The door to the Interrogation Room swung open, Gordon and Stephens storming in. They reached the back of Eddie's chair just as he turned around.

"Commissioner," Nashton nodded to Gordon, "And Detective Stephens. Nice to see you. I was just having a chat with our friend here."

Gordon looked sternly at Nashton. "Can we please step outside, Detective?"

Eddie made a look as if he were considering not doing what Gordon asked, but walked outside with them a second later. As soon as the door shut behind them, Stephens was on him.

"What were you thinking," he yelled, "No one was supposed to touch him until the DA got here."

Nashton simply shrugged this off, "Would I be wrong in assuming that you and Commissioner Gordon only found out that Mr. Nigma here because you wanted to talk to him yourselves?"

Stephens had no answer for this. The prick was right. Gordon took over. "So why'd you bring him up here, Eddie?"

"I just had a few questions for him," he paused, trying to leave Gordon and Stephens hanging for a second, "And because of this." Nashton produced the new letter from his pocket. Gordon grabbed it immediately.

"Is that what I think it is?" Stephens asked.

Reading a few passages, Gordon knew it was. He nodded. "Unfortunately, yes."

"Fresh one, too," Nashton eagerly interjected, "Seems like it might have been printed just this morning. He references the failed hijacking of the armored car in it, too."

"And he's got a new name for himself," Gordon added, still surveying the paper, " 'For I am E. Nigma, not the man in the cell. But to that I must add: I am the Riddler as well.' The Riddler…"

The same thought went through all three of their minds. Nashton was the one to say it. "The Riddler. Successor to the Joker."

"Or at least that's what people will assume," Stephens finished.

Gordon nodded, quickly folding up the letter and stuffing it inside his coat pocket. He pointed at Eddie. "Who else knows about the letter?"

"Just him," Nashton jerked his thumb at the Interrogation Room, "Whoever he turns out to be. No one walked in with me and I was the first person to see it out there, I think."

"Ok," Gordon turned to Stephens, "After Van Dorn leaves, send him over to county. Confiscate the cane and his clothes as evidence. We might be able to find where he got them and follow that to the real Nigma." He then grabbed Nashton, pulling him along down the hallway, "You and I need to get downtown to the Mayor's office and show him this letter."

--

A little slower than the beginning, but I finally got to introduce the character I'd been waiting for. Things should pick up now. Read n Review! Please?


End file.
